


Hi Gay, I'm Pan

by susiephalange



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Coming Out, Fandom Allusions & Cliches & References, Fluff, M/M, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, male reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 09:05:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12791277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: Reader lives with Wade Wilson. Reader comes out. Wade comes out too. It's all very gay.





	Hi Gay, I'm Pan

**Author's Note:**

> By " _it's all very gay_ " I meant both the archaic and the current meaning of the word gay, since it used to mean 'light-hearted and care-free', as well as MLM/WLW. Which is a pun in itself that I love.
> 
> This was a request from a pal on Wattpad!

You were fourteen years, two months, and three days old when you discovered that you were very, very gay. Meaning: you loved men. Not that you had a collection of cliché homosexual memorabilia in your apartment, stashed away under and in the mattress of your bed like a sort of heathen (wait, yes, you did have some stuff, but that shit was on display on the shelf, because who didn’t like _RuPaul's Drag Race_?). But when you were twenty-seven years, eight months, and thirteen days old, you found yourself in a precarious position. Perhaps it was because you hadn’t found yourself able to come out to your very southern-traditional family. Perhaps it was because you’d just moved to the city, and when you put out a flyer for a roommate, found that you had reeled in a roomie who’d be a little more than what the regular person could handle.

But that was three months, six days and nineteen hours ago. You were nearly to your twenty-eighth year of life, and something so integral to your identity had not been brought up. Discussed. Even though Americans could marry whoever they wanted (and in some states, they could marry animals too), and yet, when Pride was on, you sat at home and worked on your investigations for your boss, the formidable Ms. Jones.

But it was the third month, sixth day, and twentieth hour since Wade Wilson became your roommate, and while he made no effort to keep his lifestyle quiet (of course, that was after you found him peeling the molten suit off his puckering skin at 3AM one morning), you decided that he was as good a confidant and friend as any. And thus, it was this day that you decided to come out to your roommate.

But that was easier said, than done. First you had to find the guy.

Well, you were going to, until your boss called. She was a firecracker, Jessica Jones – sometimes on fire, sometimes soaked in alcohol, but always, _always_ , burning the candle from both ends. But she was a fantastic private investigator, and that was why you stuck around with her and her shitty pay.

“__________? Need that evidence right about now.” You opened your phone to hear. “Think it might be the tipping point to finding the guy, drop it by the office ASAP.”

You grab your messenger bag and the envelope with all you’ve got on the case, and start to head out the apartment. “On my way, Jones.”

She hangs up before you do.

The quick subway ride across Midtown to her edge of Hell’s Kitchen is fast, and when you hand her the evidence, you’re given another manila folder. This one’s titled _Phimister, E_. You slide it into your messenger bag, just as Jessica’s neighbour pokes his head out from his apartment. She prepares for his oncoming speech by downing the coffee in her hand.

“Did you guys hear the news? There’s another hero around the city,” he grins like an idiot. “He calls himself Spider-Man.”

Jessica rolls her eyes, “Kid Crime Stopper needs to cool it,” she groans, and goes to take another sip of her drink, to find it’s empty, “We don’t need more idiots in costume running around the city.”

Malcom doesn’t say a word. He just shakes his head, and returns to his apartment.

She turns to you. “Why’re you still here, __________?” You shrug. She scrunches her nose. “You smell, like,” she winces, “Soap? You even shaved. Don’t tell me you’ve got a job interview.”

You laugh, but inside, you’re screeching, _how does she know I wore the nice soap?_ as if she can deduce also that you’re as into boys as the Hulk was into smashing. “Not leaving _Alias_ if I can help it, Jones,” you tell her, “Can’t a guy just use soap occasionally, and have it not become a thing?”

She scrutinises you once again. “It’s something big.” She scoffs, and sighs, when once again she realises her cup is empty of coffee. “I don’t care.” She says, turning to close the door to her office, and over her shoulder, she says, “Good luck for it, though.”

You shoot a text to Wade upon leaving her office, wondering where he is. He sends a picture back, a selfie where he’s waving with another person’s arm, holding the cadaver’s limb like it was a regular thing to hold, like a martini, or an uncomfortable silence. You glance back to the closed door of _Alias Investigations_ and take the elevator down. You know where Wade is, just from that picture. It’s nearby, too.

You make it there in good time, and when you get to the rooftop of your favourite noodle bar restaurant. As you climb up the fire escape, you notice there’s a not very discreet puddle of blood on the concrete, and near it, you see Wade sitting in his suit, legs dangling off the side with a fat sushi roll in his hand, the tempura prawn about to slide out the bottom end.

“Hey,” he greets, around his mouthful.

You nod. “Hey.”

You go to take a seat beside him, and looking down, you see the sidewalk below, and all the little people rushing around in their little lives, hailing taxies, making out by the phone boxes, smoking their lungs into submission. You look to Wade, and see he’s still munching away on his roll of sushi.

“I’m gay,” you tell Wade, the two words falling out from your lips like too much rice after a rice-eating contest at 1AM (something that has happened every three weeks or so between you and Wade). “I mean, I –,”

“Hi Gay,” Wade says, his smile crinkling the parts of the mask that aren’t pulled over his mouth, and adds, “I’m Pan.”

You pause. “Wait, that’s it?” You ask him. “I – wait, what’s pan? Are you screwing with me?”

Wade shakes his head. “No, I swear. No screwing,” he swallows his mouthful. “It just means I’m like, super gay, and super straight and super into every sort of human out there within reason. Also, wouldn’t say no to a panda in a sexy maid costume,” he laughs, “Didn’t you hear? It’s 2017. Everyone is some sort of gay,” he then adds in a whisper, “Even if they’re straight, they’re lying.”

You take that in. “So, it’s cool?”

Wade nods, and ripping into his sushi roll again, he says, “Yeah, it’s cool. You’re telling me this, so you can bring your hot boyfriend around to the apartment to make out, or…?” Wade asks.

“What makes you think _I_ of all people could get a hot boyfriend?” you ask him honestly, “You’re the first person to know I’m gay…”

You can’t tell because he’s wearing the mask, but you’re sure his eyes are super wide when he utters a long, “ _Whaaaaaaaaaat_?” But before you can say anything else to make it seem less of a big deal than he thinks it is, he says, “I can’t f*ucking believe it, this is amazing! I know a guy who gets free churros, let’s celebrate!” Then, to himself, he says, under his breath, “Author, that is not how you censor a swear word – also, congrats on writing your first major swear for fanfic!”

You look to him, unsure of what just happened. But you’re okay with it. Free churros and celebrating with Wade tonight makes the idea of staying at home and re-watching the _Harry Potter_ movies sound a little better.

“Hey, if you were a superhero, __________, I’d make your suit red, so we could both hang out with the others. There’s this guy dressed like demon, but he’s just a sweetheart, and the churro guy, Spider-Parker. Man. Shit.” He tosses the dregs of his sushi roll over the side of the building, and watches as they fall on the roof of a taxi driving by.

“I don’t think I’m the superhero type,” you say to yourself. “I just want to make rent. And ask Mr. Cee if we could have a pet in the apartment.”

Wade considers. “Dog?”

You shake your head. “Cat. I saw an add on Craigslist for free. I feel bad for it.”

“What’s its name?” he asks.

You whip your phone out, and show him a picture of the calico kitten, a young female with yellow and white splotches over her black body, with a fluffy coat. “Uh, Eleven.”

“Get her. _Now_.”

* * *

It’s another eight months, three weeks, two days, and thirteen hours when life stops being so chaotic. You’ve turned twenty-nine. You solved case after case with _Alias Investigations_ until Jessica Jones adds you to the plaque on the door, and adds a raise to your pay check. Eleven the cat is the one thing at home that makes life bearable. Perhaps that fact was not because you lived a terrible, horrible life; in fact, it was very much the opposite.

That rooftop chat eight months ago with your roommate had led to something much different than what you had said – you were in fact, very much the hero type. But that was after the attack from a radical sect of people called Inhumans, and when you were caught on the subway exposed to fumes, and the only one left alive, it also left your body changed, as to never be able to become broken. Which was great, because a week after that, you were hit by a cab, and left a __________-sized dent in its bumper bar, and didn’t die. Bonus!

It was no big deal. Some people called you nerdy Luke Cage. More people, like the press, called you Tungsten. You had no idea why until a quick Google search lead you to realise it was a type of metal that was _brittle and hard to manipulate, and the toughness is enhanced by melding it with steel._ Sort of how you often worked alongside Deadpool.

But it was now, eight months later when you find yourself sitting at home, Eleven on your lap, watching the new season of _Doctor Who_ on Netflix. You weren’t a fan of the companion Clara Oswald, but watching _Hell Bent_ , it nearly rendered you to tears.

“I love Peter Capaldi,” Wade said beside you, on the lounge. He wore only his boxer shorts, and a loose tee that said _I like sunsets, long walks on the beach and murder_ on it in comic sans, showing off his scarred skin. “But you know who I love most?”

You take a moment to consider the answer. “David Tennant.”

But at the same moment, he says, “You.”

You don’t quite get it, because maybe you’ve just been talking about the actors who play the nine-hundred-year-old plus time lord. Maybe because you’ve had a long day fighting against the forces of evil and the crowds around the subway on peak hour, and the one-word answer he has given you almost stuns you.

“Wait, what?” you ask. Eleven _meows_ on your lap, as if to confirm, that yes, this is a love confession. “Wade –,”

He wraps his arms around you, _smoosh_ ing his face into your cheek, and aggravated by the sudden assault of affection, Eleven flees from your lap to the rug beneath the television, purring indignantly. “Yeah, I’m head over heels for you, man.” He grins, and noticing your silence, adds, “Don’t tell me this time that you have a hot boyfriend.”

You pause, and taking the remote, still the commotion going on with the Timelords, so you can focus on the commotion going on in your lounge room. “Yeah, I’ve got a hot boyfriend.” His face falls, withdrawing his arms from around you. You begin to laugh, and draw the Merc with a mouth toward you, _smoosh_ ing your face against his, “He’s you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Buy me [ko-fi](https://www.ko-fi.com/M4M3P4NJ)?
> 
> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


End file.
